A few months ago, I took advantage of my then-recent vaccination and went on a trip with a few friends to Puerto Rico. I had been once before when I was a kid, and I could remember how beautiful I thought the cobblestone streets of San Juan were and how fabulous I felt having a (virgin) piña colada underneath the upside-down umbrellas. So, I was psyched to go back, especially with friends who knew the island pretty well.

Among the many activities we did during the vacation, one was a hike in the national forest, El Yunque. It’s always a must; I had seen a few waterfalls there the trip before, but I was excited to do a more rewarding hike this time. We all decided on a route called “The Peak.” My friend, Denisse, described the route and its length to us, and it sounded absolutely breathtaking. I remember thinking, Ah, so what if it’s a long hike? Why not, right? When in Puerto Rico!

I think I must have had too many actual piña coladas while she was describing it to us to realize what a hike called “The Peak” might signify to someone who is afraid of heights.

So I made the connection about an hour and a half into the hike. We had gotten caught in a little rain, but morale was still high. Then, the path started to get narrower and narrower, not to mention slippery from the rain. Denisse, leading the pack, started pointing out the spectacular views to us. When I finally peeled my eyes away from the path, I saw about a billion green leaves just blowing in the wind, pulsating at me as if the leaves were all breathing in unison. Oh, and I think I remember seeing the coast of the island in the far distance; I could only look out about three seconds at a time because I was getting a little lightheaded. Instead of calling it quits right there, I told myself to keep going, that all was okay, and that we had already conquered such a good chunk of the hike. There was no turning back now.

But there was a turning back, and it was approximately 10 minutes before the end of the route and the peak of El Yunque. I knew my friends had to keep going because we were oh-so-close, so I pivoted by myself (after recovering from a small anxiety attack) and started to make my way back down. Luckily, being in the blessed year of 2021, the forest had excellent cell phone service, and I was able to make sure I didn’t get Taken (2008) thanks to FaceTime. My friends eventually met up with me near the bottom, and we booked it out of there to make sure we got out safe and sound before the park rangers closed the gates for the day. I wanted to kiss the ground.

All in all, I am proud to say that I experienced the hike. Although it was a traumatic lesson, the hike taught me so much about myself. No, I didn’t make it to the top of the mountain, but maybe it’s not about making it to the top. Maybe it’s about almost making it to the peak, admitting to myself I’m not really a mountain gal, and being resilient enough to find a way to get myself down. 

And now, you will find me where I belong: at all the nice, very flat and smooth beaches that the world has to offer. Good thing I live in Florida, right?